One Reacher Reaching
by Moedad
Summary: This is a sequel to my earlier story Open Slay, with a little bit of crossover to events and characters in L.A. Requiem by Robert Crais. Jack Reacher is in Los Angeles-Venice Beach, to be specific-to relax in some warm winter weather. Of course, Reacher can't relax. He draws the attention of a local gang, and the casualties start piling up. Can Reacher get out of this jam?


One Reacher Reaching

A Jack Reacher Story

Christmas Eve. The blonde weather girl in the tight, sleeveless top said the coldest place in the nation was Bismarck, North Dakota. Minus 63 if you accounted for the wind chill. I congratulated myself for being in Los Angeles, where she said the high was going to be 83 degrees, and for being where I could see her.

She was doing a live report from the boardwalk in Venice Beach, a Los Angeles suburb on the coast. Why it was called a "boardwalk" when it was really an asphalt paved street was one of those California things, I supposed. She was standing in front of the low, aqua-blue painted steel fence that formed the enclosure for the Muscle Beach area. A looming concrete figure dominated the facility. Somebody's idea of art. It was meant to represent an enormous body builder bent over a barbell, but to me it looked more like some kind of Eastern bloc Cold War monument. Beyond the Muscle Beach facility, across a stretch of sand, the Pacific Ocean glimmered in the sun like something in a dream.

Inside the low blue fence were the weight machines and racks and various other pieces of fitness equipment. Shirtless, sweating men with gleaming muscles and heavy tans were working out. Around half of the perimeter, permanent bleachers had been erected where bystanders could sit and watch in the California sunshine. Most of the U.S. was being pounded by violent snow and ice storms, but Southern California was experiencing one of their winter heat waves. I could get used to it, no doubt about it.

Tourists and locals, all taking advantage of the spectacular day, jammed the boardwalk which paralleled the beach with brightly colored shop buildings lining the inland side of the walk. There were booths and kiosks scattered along the way displaying local artwork and selling touristy items. The shops, the tattoo places, the fast food joints, the street vendors-all were doing brisk business. On the other side of the boardwalk, the beach side, all three basketball courts north of Muscle Beach had noisy, full court pick-up games going, as did the main court.

Street performers were drawing clots of onlookers that clogged the flow of foot traffic along the boardwalk, but nobody seemed to mind. They were also happy to be here instead of Bismarck, that was for damn sure. The bike path out on the sand was a parade of cyclists, runners, and skaters. Girls in skimpy bathing suits walked past in pairs and groups. Palm trees were swaying. It was just one huge hedonistic tourism commercial.

I was watching the body builders from a bench that, for the moment, was shaded by one of the palms. I'd been in L.A. for two weeks now, moving around a little because I never liked staying some place for more than a couple of days, but staying in the area because if I went almost anywhere else, I'd need warmer clothes. And the beach areas, especially Venice, boasted a high number of thrift stores, which were my latest source of cheap clothing. Surprisingly enough, clothes that fit me were fairly easy to find there. Not too many guys my size were prowling the aisles. Once the clothes were donated, they hung on racks for a long time, just waiting for me.

My shade finally moved on. I was about to do the same when it happened.

I'd been watching a couple of young guys doing bench presses. One spotting and one lifting, then switching places, adding weights each time. They'd worked their way up to pressing three hundred pounds. The guy currently spotting was flexing his arms, trying to catch the eye of the weather girl. She pretended not to notice, but finally motioned him over to the fence with her microphone and he stepped away from the bench.

The partner managed okay for a couple more lifts, but his arms were shaking, and each consecutive press got harder. On his last press, the bar slowly rose, and stopped several inches short of the cradle. The guy's face was red as he strained to push it all the way up. His arms trembled. His spotter was completely oblivious, all of his attention on the weather girl's cleavage. The bar shook, then started dropping back down. The guy's eyes grew wide in panic as the bar picked up momentum. It ended up across his chest with crushing force. He was fighting to keep it from rolling down onto his throat. It might not pop his head off, but he'd die from a smashed esophagus just the same.

I pushed off the bench and stepped across to put two hands on the top of the steel fence. Vaulted it and landed at the head of the bench where the guy was losing the battle with three hundred pounds. I heard the weather girl gasp, "Oh my gosh!"

I wrapped my hands around the bar, lifted it off his chest. Put it back up onto the cradle. He broke into a cough as his spotter got back in time to do nothing but look stupid. Turned out besides being stupid, he had an attitude. Tried to save face in front of the girl.

"Thanks, but I had that," he said.

"No you didn't. That bar would've killed him. You're an ass."

His eyes narrowed and he stepped toward me, but the weather girl had scooted through the nearby gate and appeared at my elbow with her mic.

"You didn't have much trouble lifting that bar off this gentleman's chest," she gestured at the guy on the bench, who was still massaging his pectoral muscles. "You must be a regular."

I only looked at her. Shook my head.

"He just wanted to get in your shot," the guy with the attitude said. I'd had enough and was turning to go when the guy went too far. "Yeah, walk away while you still can, old man."

I turned back around. Stepped toward him. I was probably twenty years older than him. Maybe twenty-five. He was a couple inches shorter, maybe twenty pounds lighter. His arms were still pumped from lifting, swollen almost to the point of being misshapen. His muscles had muscles.

We stood almost chest to chest. He smelled like cocoa butter sunblock. I used to have a stare I used when I had to appear at various bars and dives around the world to "collect" wayward troops. I'd drop my chin and from under my eyebrows I'd just let my eyes bore into theirs. If I could get directly under a light that threw my eyes into the shadows of my brow, even better. I used that stare on this guy. He tried to meet it with a scowl of his own, but what he really wanted was to back up. Trouble was, he'd already committed himself, and he wasn't smart enough to talk his way out of it. Even worse, he'd done it in front of the girl and the camera. She was standing there with her mic sticking out.

"Tell you what," I finally said to the guy. By now a small group of onlookers was starting to form around us. "You take this bench and the weight you've got on the bar, and I'll take the next bench there. We'll put the same amount of weights on another bar and we'll match each other, lift for lift. See who can do the longest set."

The weather girl's eye got big. "That's a great idea! This will make a great color piece. Let me get over here with the camera."

While she was getting situated, a couple of the regulars, eager to watch the match, brought another bar and started loading it up with weights to equal the three hundred on the first bar. While this was happening I could see the guy's wheels going. He'd been lifting for a while already and his arms were tired. No kind of benefit there. On the other hand, he was warmed up and I was cold. I had three days of whiskers on my face and looked like a bum in my mismatched thrift store clothes.

I made it easy for him. "You've been lifting already and you're warmed up. I'll do ten and then you start in. First one to stop loses. Winner gets to let TV Girl squeeze his muscle."

That brought a chorus of hoots and howls from the crowd, with suggestions about which muscle she'd be squeezing. The girl blushed, but she had a huge grin on her face.

"What are your names?" she asked, her mic held out between us for the answer.

"Lonnie," said the other guy.

"Reacher," I said.

The guys who'd helped add the weights to my bar volunteered to spot us. I settled on my back on the next bench and put my hands on the bar. Found the grip I wanted. Took a couple of deep breaths and blew them out. I glanced over at Lonnie.

"You ready?" I said.

He gave me a surly nod.

I lifted the bar off the cradle and brought it down. Touched it to my chest and started lifting.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

I chose a rhythm that was maybe a little fast, but I wanted to mess with Lonnie's head. Wanted him to be maybe a little worried.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

I got to ten and Lonnie started. Up. Down. Up. Down.

Lonnie got to ten and I increased the speed of the lifts ever so slightly. The crowd started to get vocal, voicing their encouragement. Mostly for Lonnie, but a few of the older guys were saying "Reacher! Reacher!", timing each "Reacher" with my lifts. We did five more. Lonnie was slowing down, his breathing getting ragged. Each lift brought a grunt out of him.

He did three more lifts before he couldn't push the bar up again. His spotter helped him guide it back up to the cradle.

I kept lifting. Up. Down. Up. Down. If somebody needed me to beat them, I was willing to oblige.

The crowd whistled and cheered while I did ten more lifts after Lonnie stopped, then I cradled my bar.

"Put fifty more pounds on each end," I said. Had to say it loud so I'd be heard. The two guys hustled. The noise from the crowd faded as they watched and realized what I'd said.

Now I had four hundred pounds of weight on the bar, and the only sound was the rap music from a nearby street performer's boom box, and the surf out across the sand.

I was still lying on the bench. I reached up and found my grip again. Took two deep breaths and blew them out. Lifted the bar off the cradle and lowered it to touch my chest. Started lifting.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Somebody started clapping, and a chorus of applause and cheers went through the crowd.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

I did a full set of ten and cradled the bar. Sat up and swung my legs to one side of the bench to face Lonnie. Like I said, I was willing to oblige. He looked at me for a full five seconds, then stuck out his hand. I shook it.

"You're right, I'm an ass," he said, and he smiled. More cheers from the crowd and people were slapping both of us on the back. I stood up and the crimson-faced weather girl was pushed to the front of the crowd to wind up in front of me. Amid the hoots and hollering, I made a fist like Charles Atlas and held up my right bicep, swollen to the size of her head.

"Reacher! Reacher! Reacher!" the crowd chanted. She put her slender hand on my arm and gave it a meaningful, lingering squeeze as she looked me right in the eye, accompanied by more cheering. Best part, before she left she slipped a scrap of paper with a phone number on it into my shirt pocket.

Once she was gone, the crowd began to disperse. I went out the gate instead of vaulting the fence again. Across the boardwalk, two guys with shaved heads, wearing white wife-beater shirts and sagging short pants that ended at mid-calf, were leaning against a wall, watching me through hooded eyes. One of them was talking into a cell phone held close to his ear. Their arms were heavily sleeved with tattoos, right on up their shoulders and throats. I started walking south along the boardwalk. They pushed off the wall of the store and walked south as well, staying even with me.

It was clear the guy with the phone was talking about me to someone on the other end of the connection. I turned and walked straight up to them. Held out my hand for the phone.

"Let me talk to him," I said.

The guy looked into my eyes for a moment, then with a sneer handed me the phone. His companion stood next to him, trying to stare me down the way I'd stared down Lonnie.

I ignored both of them. Put the phone to my ear and just listened. As I listened, I moved around a corner into an alley between two shops. The two guys followed me.

At first there was silence. Then a soft voice. "We been looking for you."

I said nothing.

"Nowhere you can go to now. We gonna take you."

I said nothing. Handed the phone back to the guy. He took it and put it to his ear again. He looked confident, as if he knew whatever the soft voice told me would have me shaking in my boots. Maybe he was waiting for me to start begging.

Instead I whipped up both my hands and smashed their heads together like a pair of cymbals. Action beats reaction. The only thing they had time to do was look surprised. They crumpled at my feet.

I bent over and picked up the dropped phone. Put it to my ear. The connection had been lost.

I dropped it again and ground it to pieces on the asphalt with my heel. Moved back out of the alley and looked up and down the boardwalk. A year ago, I'd had an encounter with some gang members. Several of them had ended up in the hospital. One of them ended up dead. The two guys in the alley clearly had some kind of description of me. Or maybe they'd learned my name from somewhere. Maybe the girl I'd met at the rescue mission—Isabel? —had mentioned it to an acquaintance. Whatever. The scene at Muscle Beach had gotten somebody's attention. Maybe somebody saw me on TV during the weather girl's live broadcast and had put the word out.

The gang bangers from last year were MS13. I didn't know if these guys were part of the same gang or not. They had "VT" inked on the back of their necks. Something to do with Venice maybe. They wouldn't've had members in downtown L. A. where I had my run-in with MS13. Most likely they were trying to collect a bounty that MS13 had put out on me. The word was out on the street. No doubt about it. The Muscle Beach incident had just occurred and already I was getting attention. The incentives to find me must've been enormous. Status, money, drugs—could be anything.

I was at a tactical disadvantage. This was their ground. Although I'd been in the L.A. area for two weeks, I'd only been here in Venice for one night. And my other visits to L.A. had been to other areas. Being unfamiliar with Venice, I was unprepared for what I knew would be coming. I'd committed the ultimate offense against a gang—I'd assaulted two of their "homies" in their own territory. If they were going to maintain any kind of respect from rival gangs, they needed to respond with brutal, overwhelming force. That's what I would do in their place. I didn't know where to go to best defend against that kind of attack. That made my choice simple. Strike first. Strike hard. Don't let them get set.

Three more guys, all dressed like the two on the ground in the alley, were already coming toward me from the direction of Muscle Beach. Focused on me. Zeroed in. I walked right at them, fast, just as focused. They had been expecting me to run and when I didn't, their pace slowed. They were at a momentary loss. It gave me all the time I needed.

The guy in the middle lifted his shirt and snatched the grip of a pistol in his waistband, but he'd reacted way too late. He got his hand on it, but I was already on top of him, close enough to deliver a massive head butt to the bridge of his nose. It was a huge impact, timed as I was walking in on him with that momentum behind me.

Even as he was falling, I stripped the gun out of his waistband with my right hand and with my left hand shoved him into the guy on that side. The guy on the right had a knife, lunging forward with the blade held low and I backhanded him across the face with the pistol before he could bring it into play. He reeled backward.

The guy on the left got untangled from the body of the guy I'd head butted, but he didn't do the smart thing. He didn't run. My backhand had set me up to come around again with my right and smash the gun into his cheek. He staggered back and fell.

Knife guy was on his hands and knees, spitting out teeth and blood. I kicked him hard in the ribs, hard enough to flip him over. Hard enough to break several ribs. He went down on his back and he stayed down. I dropped the gun next to him.

By now people were beginning to stop and stare, milling around, drawn by whatever draws a crowd to an accident or a fight. Most of them weren't even sure what they saw, just three guys laying on the ground. It was all over so fast. Maybe some of them thought it was some kind of Hollywood stunt show.

I pointed at a guy taking pictures with a cell phone. "Call 9-1-1!" I said. I said it to a couple more people as I moved into the crowd, trying to blend in as best I could. This was bad tactics though. It was going to be harder to see them coming in a crowd. They could get close and stick a blade in me before I had a chance to see them. I needed an advantage.

I stepped into a gift shop and went straight to the post card racks. Spun two of them, searching, and was on the third when I found what I was looking for. A cartoonish looking souvenir map of Venice Beach. I only had to study it for ten seconds to decide what my next move would be. I stayed behind the rack, looking over the top of it to the boardwalk outside the store. No sign of any new pursuers yet. I put the map back in the rack. Walked to the open front of the store and turned south down the boardwalk. At the first alley, I cut inland to Speedway, which was actually just a glorified alley paralleling the boardwalk.

I turned south again on Speedway, keeping to the west side of the street where the afternoon winter shadows were growing longer. I was in a residential area now—long, narrow lots built up with long narrow two-story houses, jammed together with only scant feet between each one. I passed Venice Blvd. and went a couple more blocks, then cut east through an alley to Pacific Ave. Turned south yet again on Pacific.

Several streets head of me, a car with a lot of heads in it crossed an intersection, heading west toward the ocean. Brake lights flared and the car skidded to a stop. Slammed into reverse. The tires smoked as it screeched back into the intersection and tried to make an awkward turn. The driver didn't give himself enough room and couldn't clear the curb. Had to back up and cut the wheel, try again. I kept walking.

The car cleared the curb and came roaring up the street. I made a quick turn east and hurried down a winding path through a small parkway to the next block. Crossed the street and found what I was looking for—a narrow walk that led to a pedestrian bridge over one of the famous canals. The walk was shadowed by trees, vines, and shrubs growing over adjacent fences lining the path. I went about halfway down the path and stepped into the shadows of an overgrown bougainvillea.

I heard the car stop on the street. Two car doors slamming. An engine accelerating. Running footsteps.

I waited.

Three guys ran past me, each with one arm pumping and one hand holding up his baggy shorts. I stepped onto the path and ran along behind them. They got to the bridge and stopped in a cluster. A sidewalk ran along the edge of the canal and they looked right and left, searching for me. Didn't hear me coming until it was too late. I slammed the first guy into the next two guys with a brutal shove between the shoulders blades that snapped his head back on his neck. Knocked all three of them down. Jumped on the first guy's back with both feet, driving all the air out of him.

The second and third guys were trying to scramble up. I shoved the second guy into the third guy and knocked them both down again, then I stomped the second guy's ankle. He screamed something in Spanish that was cut off when I kicked him under the jaw. The third guy managed to get his feet under him in time for me to hit him in the throat with the 'V' of my right thumb and fingers. He collapsed, gagging. I picked him up by his waistband and one arm and slung him into the canal. It must've been low tide because there was only six inches of water over two feet of soft mud. Did the same thing to the other two guys. Left all three of them twitching and moaning in the mud and crossed on over the bridge.

I was on the short end of the center of three rectangular man-made islands, all bordered by shallow canals and all of them packed with the same narrow homes, although these island homes appeared generally more well-kept. The islands themselves were like a giant version of each lot, long and narrow. A sidewalk ran around the perimeter of each one. I turned right and followed the walk around the end of the island. Came to the footbridge to the next island to the south. Crossed that one and went straight across the island to yet another footbridge. I made my way over and near the end of the bridge was a bench next to the sidewalk, under a fig tree, deep in shadow. I sat down to work out my next move.

I was effectively back on the "mainland", although well into a residential maze. It felt secluded. Safe.

I waited as the sun dropped. I planned to move a little farther south to Washington Blvd and catch a bus to take me out of the area. I listened but I couldn't hear anything except the drone of traffic, punctuated by the occasional call of a gull, and the subtle white noise of surf far in the background.

It was full dark by the time I stood up. I stretched my arms over my head and headed along the sidewalk toward Washington. A low hedge grew between the walk and the edge of the canal on one side, and shaggy landscaping bordered the walk on the other side. I came out onto Washington next to a Thai restaurant. At the east end of the block, across the street, I saw an empty bench at a bus stop.

I started to walk up Washington intending to cross toward the bus stop when I heard a car turn into the restaurant parking lot behind me. At the same time another car pulled into the lot from a driveway on a side street, and another car after that one. Still another car pulled up at the curb next to me. All the cars were full of glaring faces; little patches of facial hair on chins and around harsh mouths. I moved off the sidewalk and into the parking lot to have some room. I'm a big guy. I need space.

The next ten seconds or so was just car doors opening and slamming as more and more gang members piled out to surround me. Sixteen of them. All of us under the yellowish glare of parking lot lights as traffic streamed by on Washington.

One guy was the spokesman. "We're gonna give you over to MS," he said. "But as long as you ain' dead—"he shrugged "—it don' matter what we do to you."

I said nothing.

The gang members on one side of the circle suddenly shifted their attention to something beyond the perimeter, causing the rest to look as well. They abruptly drew themselves into several defensive clusters.

My eyes followed theirs. A guy was standing next to one of their cars. I didn't see where he came from. He was a few inches shorter than me, wearing blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt with cut off sleeves. His arms hung loosely at his sides. There were red arrows pointing forward tattooed on his deltoid muscles. And he was wearing sunglasses. At night.

"Shit, Pike. You takin' a hand in this?" the spokesman said. There was a barely perceptible shift of the sunglasses as the guy focused his attention, and the spokesman backed up a step. I was impressed.

"If I need to," the guy said.

"This is Venice Trece business. We ain' botherin' you."

"Mr. Garcia feels otherwise. He doesn't want anything to happen to our friend here."

"This guy been beatin' us up, homes. He put down eight of our boys. He got somethin' coming back to him."

"Not today."

"We ain' afraid of you, Pike."

Pike said nothing.

"That shows a complete and utter lack of judgment on your part," another voice said. All the heads of the VTs swiveled 180 degrees. A dark-haired guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt was standing beyond the circle across on the other side. He had a .45 in his hands, held at low ready.

"You guys don' play fair, all surrounding us an' shit," the VT spokesman said. "We ain' gonna forget this."

The guy in the Hawaiian shirt shrugged. "Hey, if it was up to us, we'd let Reacher finish you off. Seems like he's been doing pretty well. But we'll let Mr. Garcia know about your concerns."

I wasn't sure who Mr. Garcia was, but his name evidently carried some weight. The VTs seemed to deflate right in front of me. One by one, they broke away and went back to their cars and within sixty seconds, it was just me and Pike and the guy in the Hawaiian shirt.

He tucked the .45 into a holster under his shirt. Held out his hand.

"Elvis Cole, World's Greatest Detective."

I shook his hand. Said nothing.

He nodded his chin at Pike. "This is Joe Pike, my partner."

Pike said nothing.

"Oh, you guys are gonna get along great," said Cole. The corner of Pike's mouth twitched.

"Who is Mr. Garcia?" I asked.

"Let's just say he's a good friend. He has a niece named Isabel who evidently took a liking to you a while back after you helped a friend of hers. Frank—Mr. Garcia—heard about the bounty MS had on your head and has been watching in case you turned up. Once you help a member of his family, you're family too. He asked us to come down and see if we could do anything."

"These guys seemed to know you," I said.

"Yeah, we're kinda famous around here. Can't walk down the street without being recognized. That's why Joe wears the sunglasses. Hey, we put dinner on hold to run down here. You got plans?"

"Not so much."

"Why don't you come up to my place? I've got a prime rib smoking that should be just right by the time we get home. Or you could eat some of Joe's tofu."

"You sure?" I said.

"Absolutely! You're not afraid of cats, are you?"

"Should I be?"

Pike's mouth twitched.

THE END


End file.
